Devil in Disguise
by JillianWatson1058
Summary: When Sherlock is in dire need of a break from cases, a trip to Cornwall is just what he needs! Or not. This seaside village is not as serene as it seems. A sick!fic turned case!fic, or, in other words, a modern rendition of the ACD classic, "The Devil's Foot." No slash, as usual.
1. Listen to Your Transport!

**Author's note: When someone is talking on the phone, it will appear in italics. Just saying.**

Listen to Your 'Transport!'

"I'm fine!"

"No, you're not." John pushed Sherlock back onto the sofa. "You're sick, Sherlock, and it's about time you admitted it. With the appalling lack of food and sleep you get, it's no wonder you caught something your immune system couldn't fend off. Drink your tea."

"John," the detective rasped, "I don't see why you're so concerned. It's a transport problem; it'll figure it out itself."

"That's not how it works." John clenched his fists in exasperation. "What your 'transport' needs is for you to rest and actually _eat something!_"

"For the 573rd time, I don't eat while I'm on a case."

"Much more of this, and I'll take you _off_ the case!"

Sherlock's phone vibrated on the coffee table. He snatched it before it could skitter off the edge, bringing it to his ear.

"Lestrade!" Seeing John glowering, he smiled.

"_You sound terrible," _the DI commented.

"Nothing serious," he brushed it off.

"Yes, it _is-_"

He rolled his eyes and held up a hand to silence his friend. "Did you find their headquarters?"

"_Right where you said it would be. I've got police cars surrounding the area as we speak. I would ask you to join us, but since you're obviously sick…"_

"I _told_ you, I'm-" he was interrupted by several harsh coughs- "perfectly fine."

"_Yeah," _Lestrade was clearly not buying it, "_you sound like the _pinnacle_ of health. Look, don't come if John doesn't think you should. It's raining buckets over here."_

"John's fine with it." The detective smirked evilly.

"I am _not_ and you know it!"

"_I can hear John, you know."_

"On our way," he croaked, hanging up.

"You're not going anywhere." Crossing his arms, John shot his friend his signature I'm-an-army-doctor-so-don't-mess-with-me look. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "NSY can handle this one on their own. You're burning up and you shouldn't be out in that weather. Now. Drink. Your. Tea."

"I'd rather-"another cough- "not." In a flash, he sprang from the couch, dodged John, and sprinted for the door, coughing violently.

John took off after him, knocking over a stack of papers. "Get back here, you stubborn git!" _Yeah, because he _always_ obeys you…_ he thought futilely.

Down the stairs they dashed, Sherlock bolting out the door and slamming it in John's face.

Mrs. Hudson emerged from her flat, hands on her hips. "Now, what's all this commotion about?"

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson!" John wrenched open the door… in time to see his friend collapse onto the sidewalk.

"Sherlock!"

JWJWJW

**Well, I hope you enjoyed chapter one! This is inspired and modeled after one of my all-time favorite ACD short stories. Reviews are greatly appreciated. Updates will most likely be far between, but they will come. Thanks for reading!**

**~JillianWatson1058**


	2. Just What the Doctor Ordered

Just What the Doctor Ordered

The cry of seagulls echoed off the rocks, mingling with the crashing waves. A sandy beach sprawled beneath his feet. As his eyes traveled upward, the sand turned to majestic cliffs and then to grass. This place was desolate, with nothing around save a few white cottages dotting the green hillside. Sherlock took a deep breath, almost tasting the salty air.

Was he dead?

No, he was in Cornwall. Poldhu Bay, to be exact.

"I still don't see why you had to drag me all the way out here. Seems like a bit of a long trip to get me to sit down and drink my tea, don't you think?" he asked John, who was standing next to him, hands in his pockets.

"You need to rest and let your 'transport' recover, and that means no cases," explained John as they continued strolling down the shoreline.

"Stupid rule," Sherlock muttered.

"…and as you proved by your 'episode' in London-"

"Don't call it an 'episode;' that makes me sound like a primary school kid who soiled their trousers!"

"It's not my fault that you were _acting_ like a primary school kid!" He threw his hands in the air.

"But I didn't soil my trousers!"

"Mrs. Hudson and I had to carry you up the stairs because you _passed out_. I think that's a bit worse."

"Depends on your priorities."

John rolled his eyes. "The point _is_, you obviously can't say 'no' to an interesting case. Here, you can't possibly say 'yes.' There's no Lestrade, no NSY, no murders."

"So, your idea of recovery is boring me to death? At least that would be a _novel_ method of murder…"

"It's not _that _boring here! I picked a place you'd like. Plenty of ancient civilizations and shipwrecks to keep you occupied."

"I admit that it's not the _worst_ place in the world. It's _close_ to worst, but-"

"Oh, shut up!" John laughed and Sherlock followed suit, but his deep chuckle turned into several harsh coughs.

John patted his friend on the back. "Well, I think you've had enough fresh air for now. Let's head back to the cottage. After all, Mycroft was kind enough to commandeer it for us." They walked up to where their rental car was parked.

"Kind?" scoffed Sherlock. "You know as well as I do that he just likes commandeering things!"

"Is it really that hard to believe that your brother cares about you?"

"It is not only hard, but it would be _stupid _to believe that, _because he doesn't_."

John was unconvinced, but let the matter drop. Climbing into the car, they rode the short distance to the little white cottage.

JWJWJW

"Drink your tea."

"I _am_." Sherlock rolled his eyes, bringing the steaming mug to his mouth. He was sitting on an overstuffed armchair in front of the telly. The news was on, creating a gentle murmur in the background. "Why is it that when anyone else says the words, 'drink your tea,' they sound motherly, but when you say them, they sound threatening?"

"The combination of being in the army and having to live with a stubborn flat mate." He commented from the other room. He bustled around the small kitchen, searching through the shelves for something for dinner. Mycroft had been nice enough to make sure the kitchen was stocked. "Does pasta sound good?"

Sherlock gave a noncommittal grunt.

"I'll take that as a 'Yes, John, that sounds lovely!'" He threw a box of pasta into a pot of boiling water on the stove. Checking his watch, he saw that it was 2000 hours. Getting late, then.

As the pasta bubbled merrily, he looked out the window at the blackness, too dark to see any of the bay. Suddenly, the moon sliced through the clouds, illuminating the inky waters. By this eerie light, John could see a figure walking along the other side of the bay.

"Who could that be?" he wondered aloud. Just as suddenly as it had come, the moonlight was snuffed out by clouds again, and the landscape was shrouded in darkness.

The timer for the pasta rang, bringing John's mind back to the warm kitchen. Rummaging around in drawer after drawer, he found a big spoon and dished out the noodles onto two plates.

Carefully, he carried them into the homey living room. The news was still on, but obviously unheard by the man in the armchair. Sherlock was slumped in the chair, snoring quietly.

John smiled. Setting down the steaming plates, he placed a hand on his friend's forehead. Still warmer than he'd like, but much better than that morning. Yes, this trip was just what Sherlock needed. Plenty of rest, plenty of food, and, above all, _no cases_.

Just what the doctor ordered.

JWJWJW

**First of all, I want to say a HUGE thank you for all the favorites, follows, and reviews for this story! You guys are amazing!**

**Also, sorry that this chapter's a bit slow, but the action should pick up soon! **** I'm not sure when the next chapter will come (exams are coming up), but I will try my very best to get it done soon. Thanks again for all your support!**

**~JillianWatson1058**


	3. Meet the Neighbors

**Please review! **

Meet the Neighbors

Soft, linen sheets.

Muffled voices.

The scent of tea.

Sherlock cracked open an eye, and immediately shut it again at the bright sunlight streaming through cream-colored curtains. Since the last thing he remembered was sitting in the living room, he assumed he had fallen asleep at some point. John must have brought him to his bedroom.

The voices continued, too clear to be the telly. A visitor, then. Maybe a case? It was too soon to tell.

Sherlock forced himself to open his eyes. Rolling out of bed, he pulled on his blue dressing gown and opened his door. The clinking of two teacups confirmed his theory.

"Good morning!" John raised his teacup in salute as Sherlock walked into the living room. "I thought I'd let you sleep as long as you wanted, seeing as you needed it."

He rolled his eyes. "I _don't_ need-"

"And yet you slept for 13 hours? Hm…" the doctor smirked. "Well, I suppose I'd better introduce you. Sherlock, this is Reverend Roundhay," he motioned to their visitor, a tall, well-dressed (too carefully dressed; no case, then) man with a kind face and a bald spot. "Reverend Roundhay, this is Sherlock Holmes."

"I've heard so much about your work," the man gushed, grabbing the detective's hand and shaking it with fervor. "I'm an avid reader of John's blog."

"Because the blog _always_ gets the facts right," Sherlock muttered, prying his hand free. He glanced at his friend. "May I, John?"

"Be nice," the doctor warned.

"Well," he gave the pastor a quick glance, "You're unmarried, had eggs and something syrupy for breakfast (pancakes- no, waffles, I believe), you already started working on your sermon this morning, and you prefer writing with a pencil to typing on a computer. You live no more than a kilometer away from us and walked to our cottage to 'meet the neighbors.' You're a decent, if not great, cook; you like to fish, and you have someone living with you who smokes, despite your disapproval."

Reverend Roundhay just stared, open-mouthed. "How…?"

The detective sat down in one of the comfy chairs. "Shall I start from the beginning? Not having a wedding ring is a bit of a giveaway," he rattled off, "but on top of that, your outfit clashes and there's a button missing from your jacket. No wife would allow her husband to go out wearing a broken coat; thus, you're unmarried. The crumbs on your shirt tell me all I need to know about your breakfast. The fact that the side of your hand is covered in graphite tells me both your writing preferences and that you worked on your sermon. There is more dirt on your shoes than walking from a car to our front door would cause, meaning that you walked. Anything more than a kilometer, you would probably have driven, seeing as a walk longer than that gets tiring and tedious for most people."

"Breathe, Sherlock!" John interrupted the rant, but was promptly ignored.

"Judging by the unfamiliar plate and crumbs, you brought cookies, so it's a 'meet the neighbors' visit. Judging by the fact that you and John- no, just John- ate them all before I woke up (and your arrival wasn't too long ago; you're only on your first cup of tea), they must have been very good, making you a good cook. You have old and more recent scars from fishhooks (so you're obviously a fisherman) and you smell like cigarette smoke. Since you don't smoke (no nicotine stains or such on your person), someone living with you must. You disapprove, of course, since, if I remember correctly, you think of your body as a temple of the Lord and don't want to defile it." He trailed off into a coughing fit. Maybe John was right about the breathing…

It took a moment for the pastor to regain his composure. "That… that was… incredible! Everything was spot on, even about my lodger!"

Sherlock smiled. "Child's play, really," he croaked, catching his breath.

"So," John cut in, "you deleted the fact that the earth revolves around the sun, but you kept an obscure passage from the Bible?"

"I _tried_ to delete it, but at the time I was solving a case that involved too many pastors who kept bringing it up. I decided it wasn't worth the time and effort it took to delete it repeatedly."

"Well, after that speech, I think you need some tea." He held up a teacup to his friend.

"Why is it that you're always forcing me to drink tea?" Fuming, he snatched the teacup and sipped it resignedly.

"Because you don't take care of yourself!"

Reverend Roundhay looked between the two of them. "I take it this isn't just a holiday for pleasure, then?"

"No, it's not." Sherlock said bitterly.

"More of a… forced holiday," explained John. "Sherlock's been sick lately, and since he refused to do anything about it, I thought a break from cases would be best."

"Well," said Reverend Roundhay, "if it's a break from cases you're after, you've come to the right place!"

This elicited a groan from the detective. "I get exiled to this land of tedium, and I don't even get to eat the cookies the reverend brought."

"You wouldn't have eaten them even if there _had_ been some left. Don't deny it."

"We'll never know, since there _aren't _any."

John smirked and rolled his eyes. "Oh, stop complaining! It's not that bad. So, Reverend Roundhay, tell us about your lodger…"

While John made small talk, Sherlock plotted his escape.

JWJWJW

**Yay, we finally added another character to the mix! Sorry that I didn't update sooner; I was drowning in homework and uploaded as soon as humanly possible. Honestly. **** Thank you for all your support (reviews, follows, favorites), I really appreciate it!**

**Hopefully the action will pick up next chapter. I have big plans for it! Lord willing, I can update soon, but I make no promises. Thanks for reading!**

**~JillianWatson1058**


	4. NOT What the Doctor Ordered

NOT What the Doctor Ordered

The day came and went with little incident after Rev. Roundhay left. The next morning, however, did not.

"Mr. Holmes!" The front door burst open, hitting the wall with a sharp _Crack!_

Sherlock set down his forkful of eggs and looked over the two men who rushed into the room. The reverend was disheveled, panting; the shorter man (most likely the lodger) was very pale and obviously distressed. The detective's face broke into a grin and he gave a low chuckle. A case!

John glanced at his friend, then did a double take. "No! You are _not_ taking this one!"

"I'm sorry, Doctor Watson," Rev. Roundhay apologized, "but we've already called the police and they can't make heads or tails of it."

"Of course they can't," said Sherlock. "Who's dead?"

"M-my _sister_, and my brothers were d-driven insane," the shorter man said. The reverend patted his shoulder comfortingly.

"_Really?_" Sherlock's grin grew wider. "This sounds promising!"

"Tone down the excitement, ok?" John muttered. "The poor man's grieving, and you're not taking the case anyway."

"Oh, don't reprimand _me_ when you won't even let me help the _poor man._ He's _grieving_, John," the detective said, sending his friend a look of mock concern. The doctor crossed his arms resolutely.

"Please, Doctor Watson. We wouldn't ask if there was another way," begged the reverend.

Wait for it...

"Fine!" There. "As long as you take it easy."

"_Yes!_" he exclaimed, coughing. "Now-"

"And you have to eat," John interjected.

"Will do. As I was-"

"And sleep."

"Yes, fine." Sherlock waved him off.

"And take paracetamol when I tell you to."

"Sure." He turned to their guests. "If you could-"

"Can I get that in writing?"

"_Whatever!_" the detective snapped, which prompted a chuckle from the doctor. He turned back. "Sorry about the _interruption_," John rolled his eyes. "If you could tell me exactly what happened, Mr. …?"

"Tregennis. Marty Tregennis."

"Tell me all you can, Mr. Tregennis."

"Well, my siblings live a ways down the road in a big house. They call it Tredannick Wartha."

"Why do you lodge with Rev. Roundhay if your family has a big house?"

"We had a disagreement a few years back," Mr. Tregennis explained, "so I moved in to Rev. Roundhay's spare room. We eventually solved the argument, but I had gotten used to my freedom and decided to stay with the reverend. Anyway, I made a habit of visiting my siblings every day. We'd sit around the kitchen table and play Euchre.

"Last night was just the same. We sat around the table playing cards until about 10:15, when I decided to turn in for the night and head back to the parsonage.

"This morning, I was going out for a walk and saw Dr. Richards's car pass me on the road. He slowed and rolled down his window, saying that he had received a call from Tredannick Wartha." He swallowed, obviously distressed. "He gave me a ride, and when we got there, the housekeeper (Mrs. Porter) showed us to the kitchen. I walked in and," here he broke down, "saw the three of them: Brittany dead, Owen and George were s-singing and l-laughing. They all had the most h-_horrible_ expressions of sheer _terror_ on their faces." His shoulders shook and Reverend Roundhay patted his shoulder consolingly.

"I take it that you have no theory on the cause of death, then."

Marty Tregennis pulled himself together. "It seems almost… supernatural. Devilish, really, that something could come into that room and scare a woman to death and two grown men out of their minds. How could a human do that?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I have yet to observe a crime with a demonic culprit. How far is it to Tredannick Wartha?"

"Not far at all," said Reverend Roundhay. "I can give you directions so you can drive there yourself."

The pastor scribbled down some directions, Sherlock pulled on his coat, and they headed out the door. John, however, stopped halfway down the stairs.

"Sherlock!"

"What is it? Let's _go_, John!"

"You didn't finish your breakfast."

"And…?"

"You promised you'd eat." John smirked. "So finish eating."

"What? _Now?_ But the game is-"

"On hold. Eat."

"That's ridiculous!"

"If you don't, I might just change my mind…"

Sherlock huffed and stomped back into the cottage. He emerged moments later, holding a plateful of eggs. Shoving them all in his mouth, he made a face at John. "Are you happy now?"

"Yes, actually." They climbed into the car, John in the driver's seat.

"Oh, shut up!" Sherlock snapped.

"I didn't say anything."

"You smirk too loudly."

John just laughed. He knew who had the upper hand here.

JWJWJW

**Tada! Finally, someone DIED! (Wow, that sounds evil. Oh well, it means the story's getting interesting.) Btw, I looked it up, and apparently Euchre is played in CORNWALL. (At least, that's what the all-knowing internet tells me. It could be lying.)**

**Thanks again for all your support! Reviews and follows are always welcome! **

**~JillianWatson1058**


	5. Tredannick Wartha

Tredannick Wartha

The car door slammed and dirt crunched beneath their feet as the two men walked up the path. Tredannick Wartha was huge and white, with a steepled roof and a wide bay window overlooking the lush lawn. It was obviously well cared-for, and a watering can sat on the path. Another car slowed to a halt, and Rev. Roundhay and Marty Tregennis stepped out, crunching up the path behind the other two.

"Which window is the kitchen?" Sherlock asked, turning toward Marty.

"The one two to the left of- watch out!" Too late. Sherlock's leg knocked over the watering can with a splash, drenching both his feet and the path.

"Two to the left of the door, you said?" The detective continued striding along as if nothing had happened.

"Sorry," John apologized for his friend, tipping the watering can back up. He raced to catch up, since Sherlock was already at the door. "What was that for?" he muttered. "And don't say it was an accident; I know you noticed the can."

"Footprints, John." With that, he rapped on the door. The doorknob rattled and it opened with a creak to reveal a kind-faced old woman.

"You must be the detective bloke and his friend that the reverend called," she said. "Well, come right on in, dearies. I'll show you to the kitchen." Looking down, she noticed his shoes. "Oh, and do take off your shoes, young man; you'll track mud on the... Oh, well." She trailed off as Sherlock brushed past her.

"Sorry," John apologized (he seemed to be making a habit of this), once again trying to catch up with his friend, who was already part of the way down the narrow hallway, heading for the second door. As he reached his friend's side, Sherlock gave him a manic grin, twisted the knob, and pushed open the old door.

The sight that greeted them was remarkably mundane: a modern kitchen with a stainless steel oven, fridge, and sink. At first glance, other than the fact that the chairs had been pushed back from the table in the center of the room, nothing looked remotely out of the ordinary. However, under closer inspection, things began to look strange. A deck of cards just sat there next to long-forgotten cups of tea. A breeze from the open window rustled the ghostly curtains, the whole scene just feeling wrong.

Sherlock, obviously not feeling as somber as John, strode over to the table. "Whatever happened, it happened immediately after Marty Tregennis left; the cards aren't even stacked." He opened the fridge, glanced around, shut it again. As he wrenched open the oven, he started coughing violently.

"Sherlock? You ok?" John rushed over, putting a hand on his friend's back.

"I'm fine!" he snarled. The doctor almost rolled his eyes. Only Sherlock Holmes could manage to look annoyed while practically hacking up a lung.

"Are you all right, dearie?" Mrs. Porter peeked in the room. "I would make you a cup of tea, but seeing as the kitchen's a crime scene, I thought it would be best not to touch anything."

Catching his breath, Sherlock cleared his throat. "Anything significant that _was _in this kitchen was trampled or moved when the police came. The idiots couldn't recognize good evidence if it punched them in the face."

"Does that mean it's safe to make us all a cuppa, then?" The kind old lady quickly went to put the kettle on.

Sherlock protested, "I don't need-"

"That would be _lovely_, thank you." John glared at him.

Just then, a shaken Marty Tregennis entered the kitchen, Rev. Roundhay following behind.

"Sorry about the delay," apologized the reverend. "Marty here got a call that he needed to take."

The detective perked up. "From whom?"

Gulping, Marty said, "H-helston."

"Helston?"

"The local asylum," said Rev. Roundhay. "They were calling about making arrangements for George and Owen."

"It's just terrible, what happened," Mrs. Porter piped in, shaking her head. "I've known those boys since they were making mud pies in the yard. I-I never thought, something like this, not in a million years…" she sniffed, blinking back sudden tears.

John rubbed her shoulder consolingly. "We'll catch whoever did this; don't worry."

She nodded. "I just care about them so much, as if they were my own children. I'm their housekeeper, not their landlady, after all."

Marty put his arm around her shoulders, pushing John's hand off. "We'll get through this, I promise."

"Sorry to interrupt this _heartwarming_ moment," said Sherlock (he could almost slice through all the sentiment in the room with a _knife_), "but would you mind telling me about what happened last night, Mrs. Porter?"

"There's not much to tell, really," she said, wiping her eyes. "I went to bed at nine, like I always do. I didn't hear anything during the night. This morning, when I came down to fix breakfast, I saw them s-sitting there. I must have fainted, because, the next thing I knew, I was on the floor. After I got over the initial shock, I called the police and opened a window- the atmosphere in the room was just suffocating."

"Last night, did the Tregennises seem afraid, nervous?"

"They were just as cheerful as ever."

A high-pitched whistle filled the room as the kettle boiled. Mrs. Porter bustled over to pour everyone a cup of tea, giving the first one to Sherlock, with admonishments to "take something for that cough, young man!"

Sherlock glared at his smiling friend, but had to admit that the tea tasted quite excellent. "You know, John, I do believe Mrs. Porter makes better tea than you do."

"Oh, no! You _cannot _complain about _my _tea when _you_ never make any yourself."

"Can't I? I seem to be doing it right now…"

"Correction: you _shouldn't_ complain about my tea." John rolled his eyes.

"Mrs. Porter," said the detective after a brief pause, "have you baked anything with potatoes recently?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Um, no. I don't think so. Why do you ask?"

"I was simply curious." He brushed off the hand that John was threatening to place on his forehead. "It's a perfectly logical thing to ask. I found a piece of potato in the oven and wondered if it corresponded with a recent meal."

"Mr. Holmes," Marty interjected, "I just remembered something about last night."

"Which was…?"

"Well, it was while we were playing Euchre. I had my back to the window and George, being my partner, was facing it."

"I take it you saw something out of the window, then?"

"I saw him looking over my shoulder, so I turned around to see what he was staring at. Since it was raining so hard, as you'll remember, it was difficult to make anything out, but I thought I saw a dark shape of some sort."

"A person? An animal?"

"I really couldn't say."

"Surely you could give _some_ judge of size, at least."

"Well, it was r-rather big. As I said, it was hard to tell. None of us thought it was important enough to investigate; we were engrossed in the game."

"I see. Mr. Tregennis, is there anyone who would want to kill you family or do them serious harm?" John gave him a not-so-gentle elbow in the ribs. "_Sorry_." _No_ sarcasm _there_. "What I clearly _meant _to ask was if you have any neighbors."

"J-just Curtis Leo. He's a bit of a botanist." His face fell suddenly. "He is- was- sweet on p-poor Brittany. The poor man will be crushed when he hears. He's on a trip to Africa at the moment. Not much of a motive or opportunity for murder, but he's about the only neighbor we have."

Sherlock abruptly stood up. "I believe it's time to take a look around the yard. You've been extremely informative."

JWJWJW

**Voila! Another chapter for you (at long last)! Sorry about the late update, life has been pretty hectic, and will most likely stay that way. I'm not sure when the next chapter is coming, but I'll do my best.**

**Thank you for your continued support. All of you are AMAZING! **** Thank you for reading! Once again, reviews/favorites/follows are always appreciated! **

**~JillianWatson1058**


	6. Pondering Potatoes

Pondering Potatoes

"This is getting fun!" Sherlock burst out of the door, John trailing behind him, as always.

"Creepy, more like."

"Really, John, you can't seriously be coming to the conclusion that this was something _supernatural_," he scoffed.

"Well, you have to admit that this whole situation's a bit strange."

"What do _you_ think happened, then?" asked Sherlock, crouching to look at a flowerbed underneath the kitchen window.

"Well," John thought about it for a minute, "Marty saw something outside the window, right? Maybe it was, I don't know, some creature-"

"A creature that can kill a woman and scare two grown men into insanity?"

"Yes!" The doctor crossed his arms defensively. "It's… possible."

"I'm afraid I see some problems with your theory, John," said the detective, standing up again.

"How did I know you were going to say that?"

"Although, _'some'_ is an understatement," he continued. "Even after you get around the obvious difficulty of supplying some ghastly creature that inspires terror, it was raining so hard last night that the only way to see this creature would be if it was directly up against the window. However, nothing _was_ up against the window last night, because there are no footprints or indentations in the flowerbed."

Smirking, John commented, "Maybe it can fly?"

"Now you're just being _purposely_ daft. Instead of the demon hound of Baskerville, we have a demon bird of Cornwall?"

"Well, it doesn't have to be a bird. If it's supernatural, why would it need to walk in the first place?"

"_Please_, what personal vendetta could a demon have against three people in _Cornwall_? Is Euchre a deadly sin now? Funny, too, that a supernatural creature would be kind enough to wait until Marty Tregennis had left before it struck."

"Alright, alright!" The doctor held up his hands in mock defeat. "You win. I was only joking, anyway."

"Obviously. Even you aren't quite that big of an idot."

"_Even_ me? _Quite_? What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means exactly what I said."

"I'm glad you have such a high opinion of my intelligence. Anyway, it doesn't have to be supernatural to be creepy."

Ignoring this, Sherlock moved down the path. "Judging by the footprints, Marty Tregennis walked swiftly away from the house last night, and no one came or went after him. Whoever, or _whatever_, killed Brittany and drove her brothers insane was already in the house."

"So, now that you've killed _my_ theory, what do _you _think happened last night?"

"It's too soon to know for sure; simply not enough facts."

"In that case," said John, checking his watch, "we might as well take a break for lunch."

"Which is clearly an order meant to look- unsuccessfully, I might add- like a suggestion. I assume I have no choice?"

"You can choose what we_ eat_," he smirked, "but yeah. No choice."

JWJWJW

Due to the lack of nearby Chinese takeaway, Sherlock opted for soup. While John rummaged around the cupboards, the lanky detective sprawled on the sofa. Suddenly, they heard three sharp knocks on the door.

"Really?" John stuck his head out of the kitchen. "Can anyone _not_ visit during a meal?"

"It's open!" called Sherlock, not moving from his position on the sofa.

A tall man with tan skin and bleached blonde hair walked into the room. Tall, thin, and muscular, he cut an impressive figure in the sitting room. He looked between the two men. "Sherlock Holmes?" he asked, unsure of whom he should be addressing.

"That would be me." Sherlock raised his hand lazily. "And you must be Curtis Leo, correct?"

The man's jaw dropped, taking away a bit of his impressiveness, his eyebrows furrowing together in confusion. "How?"

"It's blatantly obvious, really. Only a few people live in this remote area, even fewer who know- and dare I say _care_- about the fate of the Tregennises. Coupled with the fact that you've been abroad very recently- your tan and the ticket stub in your pocket tell me that- the only man you _could_ be is Curtis Leo. As I said: obvious."

"Right on all accounts," he said, sitting down in an empty chair, bouncing his leg nervously. "I came back from Africa because Rev. Roundhay told me about…" he swallowed, "…what happened. I figured I would come for the… funeral," he managed to choked out, "and drop by to see how the investigation about my fiancé's death was going. Do you have any theories, Mr. Holmes?"

"Starting to. It's too soon to know for sure. You wouldn't happen to know any new facts, would you?"

"How could I?" His leg continued to bounce. "I was halfway to Africa when I got the call; I booked the first available flight back. Can you tell me your theory?"

"Why should I?"

The botanist's eyebrows rose in surprise. Clearly, he was a man used to getting his own way. "Because I'm an interested party."

"I won't tell you my theory, since you obviously have your own and refuse to say it. However, I _will_ tell you that there was a potato in the oven, and Mrs. Porter didn't put it there."

"A potato?" The nervous knee-bouncing ceased.

"Yes."

"That's all you'll tell me."

"Yes, unless you tell _me_ something in return."

"I have nothing to tell!" Leo exclaimed. "Stop implying that I do!"

"Oh, _please_. You're not convincing anyone."

Mr. Leo rose to his feet. "I won't stay here and be insulted!"

"Then leave."

"I will!"

"Please do."

After the man stormed out of the room and gave the door a beating, John turned to his friend. "Well, you were certainly impolite."

"Was I supposed to play the 'charming host' for a man who willingly withheld important information?"

"No, but you could at least be _civil_." The doctor crossed his arms. "How did you know that he was withholding information, anyway?"

"He wasn't just here because he wanted peace of mind about how his fiancé died; there was none of the usual blabbing about how shocking the whole thing was, no 'Why them? Why her?' drivel. His body language said that he was nervous, not grieving, and he was very adamant about hearing my theory. Conclusion: He knows more than we do and wanted to see how far I had gotten. Your soup's boiling over, by the way."

"What?" John quickly looked back into the kitchen, groaning at the foamy sight that greeted him on the stove. "No!" He quickly removed the pot to a different burner, switching off the heat. "Well, lunch is ready!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "_Wonderful_."

Thankfully, most of the soup was still salvageable, and the doctor spooned it into two large bowls.

As John set a steaming bowl on the coffee table, the detective sat up. "Potato soup, how fitting."

"Why _are_ you so fixated on that potato?" the doctor asked, sitting down with his own.

"It's an important potato. Did you notice how Marty Tregennis quickly changed the subject after I mentioned it?"

"No, I didn't. Does it tell us anything?"

"Most definitely."

"Ok, good." After a brief pause, John asked, "_What_ does it tell us?"

"Not sure yet."

"Yes, I can see that it's a _very_ important potato, then. Eat your soup."

This earned him a glare, but Sherlock did as he was told. "Well," he said, after finishing several spoonfuls, "it's not horrible."

"Thank you," John rolled his eyes, "I will _cherish_ that comment. So, you said that Marty Tregennis was acting suspicious. Do you think he's the murderer?"

"Could be." He finished his bowl. "Now, shut up; I need to think," he said, lying back down on the sofa, putting his hand together underneath his chin.

Knowing that any subsequent attempts at conversation would be useless, John left the room, taking the empty bowls with him.

JWJWJW

"Sherlock, you need to eat."

"But I just ate!" He opened his eyes, abruptly coming back to reality. He was still lying in the same position.

"That was four hours ago," John said, crossing his arms.

"It was?"

"Yes. Are you feeling ok?" His hand reached for his friend's forehead.

"I'm _fine_. You know that I never keep track of time when I'm thinking." He tried to push the doctor's hand away, but to no avail.

"And _you_ know that you're _not_ fine. I think you overdid it today," John frowned, taking his hand back. "I want you to take a paracetamol with dinner, ok?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, _sir_. What _is _for dinner, anyway?"

"Pizza. Did you know that this cottage has a time-bake oven?"

"A time-bake oven?"

"Yeah, it's one of those where you can set the clock for what time you need the oven to turn on, and then set another clock for what time it needs to turn off."

"So you don't have to worry about burning your food? Maybe you should ask Mycroft for a time-bake _stove_."

"Exactly! Do you think he'd get me one?"He walked into the kitchen, opening the oven. "Do you prefer pepperoni or Hawaiian?"

"I'd _prefer_ not to eat _anything_."

"Not an option. You're getting pepperoni."

They ate in a companionable silence, John growing more and more amused as he saw his friend grow more and more tired. After his friend's head threatened to land in his plate of pizza for a second time, the doctor hauled Sherlock up by his arm.

"What are you doing?" Confused, the detective blinked.

"Putting you to bed."

"I'm not tired!" he protested.

"I'm sure you're not." John led his friend down the short hall to Sherlock's bedroom, opening the door. "You just _happened_ to use your plate as a pillow."

"I need to think!"

"You've thought quite enough for today." John dumped Sherlock onto the bed.

Lying face down on the sheets, the detective gave a muffled, "I don't need sleep."

"Yes, you do. Good night!" Quietly, the doctor shut the door.

JWJWJW

Sherlock awoke with a start. His room was still dark, but a watery light was starting to seep through the curtains. A sound reached his ears: someone was banging on the door to the cottage. Pulling on his dressing gown, the detective pushed open his bedroom door, finding his way down the darkened hallway.

The pounding came again. Lifting the curtain on the front door window, he saw a man standing there. He wrenched open the door.

"Reverend Roundhay?"

The kind man rubbed his hands together, clearly agitated. "It's Marty Tregennis, he's…"

"Yes?" Sherlock looked at him with interest. "He's what?"

"He's dead."

JWJWJW

**Yay! Another chapter! Woohoo! Life is- guess what- still busy! I'm now memorizing lines for The Wizard of Oz (my school is doing it for the spring play). **

**Thank you again for all the support! I really can't say this enough: you guys are amazing! I'll try my best for the next update, but, as usual, I make no promises on when it will be finished. I hope you've enjoyed the story so far- I know I have! **** As always, reviews/follows/favorites are wonderful. **

**Special thanks to Meredith, who gave me a chapter title **

**Thanks for reading!**


	7. An Idiotic Experiment

**Btw, this takes place post-reunion, so there will be Reichenbach spoilers for… reasons. **

An Idiotic Experiment

"Dead?" Sherlock repeated, the darkness hiding the grin spreading across his face.

"Yes, dead." The reverend was still wringing his hands together. "The exact same symptoms as the rest of his family, the same expression and everything."

"But," his eyebrows furrowed, then his face suddenly cleared. "Oh. Have you moved anything?"

"Nothing; even the b-body's still in the same position. I did open a window, though; the air in the room was just awful."

"Did you happen to find him in the kitchen?"

"Y-yes, how did you know?"

Ignoring this, Sherlock turned around. "John!" he called. "John!"

Moments later, a disheveled John stumbled into the darkened hall. "What is it? Are you ok?" Then he saw Rev. Roundhay. "Is everything alright?"

"Marty Tregennis is dead."

The doctor stared at his friend for a minute. "Back to square one then, is it?"

"Not necessarily."

"If you could come quickly," Rev. Roundhay interjected, "that would be best. I didn't even call the police yet, since I thought you'd like to have a look around first."

"Wise choice."

"Just give me a minute to get dressed, and then we can go." John rushed back into his room.

"Make it quick!" Sherlock called after him.

After several minutes, with the reverend waiting patiently with his arms folded, the detective also waiting- albeit impatiently- and alternating between pacing and tapping his fingers on the wall, John emerged. They pulled on their coats and headed out the door. As they walked down the desolate road, the sky began turning a pale pink.

"How did you find him so early in the morning, reverend?" asked Sherlock, who, John noticed, was still wearing his pajamas underneath the Belstaff. He rolled his eyes; the detective had had plenty of time to change his clothes.

"I woke up early, and, when I couldn't get back to sleep, decided to make myself a cuppa. When I turned on the lights in the kitchen, well…" he gulped, shaking his head. "It was the most terrifying thing I have ever experienced."

"Hasn't seen that much, then, has he?" Sherlock muttered to his friend.

John smirked. "Yeah, well, we've seen more than the average person."

Arriving at the house, Rev. Roundhay unlocked the door for them. "The kitchen's just on the left. I'll call 999 while you're looking; the police usually take a while to get here, so you can look until they arrive."

"That should be ample." The detective breezed into the room, and the doctor followed.

The first thing to catch John's attention was Marty Tregennis himself. His hands grasped the table as if it was his last lifeline, his head tilted back with an expression of sheer horror. It just didn't make sense. If Marty Tregennis wasn't the murderer, even though Sherlock had almost implied that he _was_ the night before, then who was?

At the sound of his friend having a coughing fit, John turned around. Sherlock had his head in the oven. "Just _what_ do you think you're doing?" he asked.

"Investigating," came the hoarse and muffled reply. Straightening up, the detective slipped something into his coat pocket and held up an object for inspection.

"Another potato?" the doctor asked, puzzled.

"Yes." A wide smile crept across Sherlock's face. He promptly strode out of the kitchen, and, after getting instructions from the reverend, bounded up the narrow stairs to Marty Tregennis's bedroom, John trailing behind. The detective's eyes scanned the room.

"The bed's been slept in, no sign of a struggle, so he got up on his own volition. Something must have woken him." He crossed to the window and inspected the sill. "Well, no one was old-fashioned enough to throw rocks at the window. Tregennis probably got a call on his cell phone," he opened and shut several drawers, "which happens to be missing. I'd have to check in Tregennis's pockets, but I would bet that his murderer took it so we couldn't trace the call."

With that, he raced back down the stairs to the scene of the murder, with the doctor following at a slightly slower pace. John waited in the kitchen doorway while Sherlock checked the dead man's pockets. Just then, the front door opened, hitting the wall with a bang, and a young police officer entered. Looking perplexedly at John, he asked, "Who are you and," noticing Sherlock, "why is that man going through a corpse's pockets? And wearing pajamas?"

"As to the pajamas, I think he just didn't feel like taking the time to get dressed."

"And… why are you two even here?"

Sherlock finished his search and walked over to them. "We are here because I'm a consulting detective. As such, I would direct your attention to the oven and lack of cell phone. Come, John, we're finished here."

"The oven?" The poor man just stared, completely confused, after the two men as they left the house.

"Well, he's certainly not the brightest bulb," commented the detective as they walked. "Let's see if you can do better."

"Are you really going to force me to make a fool of myself?"

"You won't make a fool of yourself if you just _think. _The oven was off, but still warm, at this last scene, so the oven has everything to do with the murder. There was something in the oven that shouldn't have been there. Curtis Leo knows something important. Curtis Leo is a _botanist_." At John's blank look, he continued. "Look, Leo knows something because this had to do with a poisonous plant that was placed in the oven. The potato was strategically placed to keep the door open just a crack so that the smoke could escape. Simple enough, really, and quite clever, as all the evidence would be incinerated."

"So… we can never _prove_ what they burned?"

"Oh, but we can! It just so happens that Tregennis's killer didn't wait for it all to burn before turning off the oven," he said, taking an evidence bag out of his pocket, "and I just so happened to get a sample."

"Sherlock, you can't just steal evidence."

"It's for a _good cause_, John, and I didn't steal _all_ of it, just most of it. Not that the police will find it anyway."

They reached the cottage's driveway and started up it. "So… that's that, then. We know how the murders were committed, so now we just have to find out who did it and why."

"Not exactly." Sherlock pushed open the door. "There's still one thing left to do."

"And… what's that?"

"You don't have to do it with me. If you back out, I completely understand."

"Sherlock, what-"

"It _will_ be dangerous, I must warn you."

"Sherlock!" John interrupted. "_What are you about to do?_"

"An experiment, John. You see, we need to figure out if this," he held up the bag, "is actually poison. For all we know, it could be the remains of one of Rev. Roundhay's meals. And, because I have _none_ of my scientific equipment, there's only one way to accomplish that." He let it sink in.

The doctor stared at him. "Are you _actually_ telling me that you're going to _burn _that and see if it _kills_ you?"

"Well, I obviously won't let it get _that_ far. It will be very controlled, and I'll stop the experiment at the first sign."

"So, I assume we're doing this in the kitchen?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

John crossed his arms. "Did you seriously expect me to back down?"

"No," his friend smirked, "but I thought you would appreciate the offer. Yes, we'll do it in the kitchen." They walked into the small room. Sherlock pulled out a chair for his friend. "You can sit here, by the kitchen door so you can get out of the room easily. I'll even crack open the door so you can get some fresh air by you. I'll sit here," he pointed to a chair, "and we'll await results." He walked over to the oven and set up his experiment, putting in the plant and using the same potato he had found in Rev. Roundhay's house to prop the oven door open. He turned the knob on the oven and sat down.

"At the first sign, Sherlock," John reminded him nervously.

"Of course."

JWJWJW

John felt it first. One minute, the cool breeze was rustling the curtains; the next, it was scorching hot, smothering him, like the wind in…

_Afghanistan. He was in the desert, running for his life. Darkness and terror crept at the corners of his vision, and he knew that to turn around would mean death. An explosion shook the ground, and John tumbled to the ground to escape the shrapnel. Crawling forward, he saw a body in a chair, a victim of the explosion. He stood up to look at the poor soul, and his heart froze at the all-too-familiar sharp cheekbones and sightless blue eyes, the pale face smeared with deep red blood, deep red clinging to the dark curls. Suddenly, there was a group of people around him, pulling him away from his friend._

"_I'm a doctor! Let me come through please, let me come through, he's my friend!" He fought his way through the grabbing hands to his friend's body. Nothing moved but his friend's pale lips, which whispered, "No, John, no. Not John. John."_

"_Sherlock? Can you hear me?" The world seemed to bend and shiver. He saw…_

… a table? The kitchen shimmered into focus, and John saw his friend's terror-stricken face. He knew what to do.

JWJWJW

As Sherlock waited, he wondered how long it would take for the poison to take effect. A gray mist crackled at the corner of his vision, and he was suddenly terrified. But no, he knew it was just the drug; it wasn't real. Mind over matter; there was _nothing_ wrong. Mind over matter, just like in…

_Dartmoor. He stood there in the dark and mist, waiting for the hound. He knew it was out there, waiting to rip, tear, kill. He heard the crunch of footsteps, not a dog's. A face loomed up out of the darkness, grinning, lit up by a blue half light. "No," he whispered, shaking his head. "No, you're dead. I saw you die."_

_The face of Jim Moriarty just grinned wider. "You know you missed me. Poor Sherlock," he pouted, "stuck playing with the _ordinary _people."_

_No, this wasn't happening. Jim Moriarty could not be standing in front of him. Jim Moriarty died on the roof of…_

_St. Bart's. Which... was where he was, wasn't it? The sun shone brightly on the concrete, but it was still freezing cold on the roof._

"_No," he said to the smiling villain. Why was it so hard to think? "You're dead. I _know_ you're dead. You shot yourself in the head."_

"_Oh, we're rhyming now, are we? Jim's dead, shot in the head, and didn't wake up in the-"_

"_Stop it!"_

"_Really, Sherlock, I did it for you, for the _game_. I think I deserve a little appreciation."_

"_Dead men don't get to complain about appreciation. You're _dead._"_

"_Fine," Moriarty conceded, rolling his eyes, "if you want to take all of the _fun_ out of it. You still have to jump, though. No cheating, Sherlock." He opened his mouth, and Sherlock knew what was coming. _BANG!_ He jerked back, but there was suddenly nothing under him. He was falling, falling, falling, and he was on the ground. But it hadn't hurt. He looked up at the gray sky and saw John standing over him._

"_Sherlock?" Then there was a bright red dot on his friend's shirt. No, John, no. Not John._

"_Sherlock, can you hear me?"_

"_John." He tried to shake his head. No, he couldn't come closer; they would shoot him. Didn't John realize the danger he was in?_

BANG!_ "No!" _And he was falling again, but he _definitely_ felt himself slam into the ground this time. He suddenly realized that he couldn't breathe.

"Sherlock!"

He tried to draw a breath and started coughing. As he managed to gasp in some air, his vision slowly cleared and he saw that he was lying on the grass in front of the cottage's kitchen door. John, who was _quite_ alive, thank you very much, was leaning over him, looking concerned. Maybe he should say something to let him know he was ok. That was what people did, right?

"John," he rasped.

"Don't talk; just breathe," came the terse reply. The doctor rolled him into the recovery position and whacked him on the back. Hard.

"I suppose," Sherlock gasped, "you did that… to free up… the airway?"

"Nope. I did that because you're a complete _idiot_."

The detective smiled weakly, and they just lay on the grass for several moments, Sherlock finally catching his breath. He turned to look at John. "You pulled me out."

"Yes, I did."

"That… that was… good."

"Yeah, well, I wasn't about to let you stay there and…" he didn't finish the sentence. "You said you would stop at the first sign. The _first sign_, Sherlock."

"I admit that I may have… miscalculated… the strength of the drug and the amount of time it took to take effect."

"No, _really_?Sherlock, you almost…"

"But I didn't. You pulled me out."

"But _what if I hadn't?_ Do you have any idea…" he shook his head. "Look, I already lost you once. I'd really rather not lose you again. If you _ever_ do something like this again…"

"You'll reprimand me?"

"Quite harshly. And then I'll punch you. Several times. You never know, I could even force you to eat dinner with Mycroft."

"You wouldn't."

"Oh, I would. There was _no_ reason you had to do that experiment, especially when you were sick."

"On the contrary, there was no other way to test if the substance was poisonous, as I told you quite clearly."

"I'm _sure _your brilliant mind could have come up with something else."

"Well," the detective thought for a moment, "Sally Donovan would agree with you that the experiment was useless."

"Donovan? Why?"

Sherlock smirked. "She would have said that we were already insane when we started."

"I think that's the only thing she and I will ever agree on."

"The experiment or the insanity?"

John smiled. "Both." The detective began to chuckle and the doctor joined in. After they lay on the grass for a few minutes, John thought of something. "So, is the cottage ruined now, or can we go back in?"

"If we open all the doors and windows, the poison should dissipate soon enough. A pity, really. I had hoped to do _something_ to annoy Mycroft. Although, there is still time to set the house on fire…"

"Nope. Not happening." The doctor got to his feet. "You stay here; I'll go open some windows."

Sherlock started to sit up. "I'm fine; I can-"

"_Stay here_."

"Yes, _sir._" He lay back down and watched his friend walk into the house. The fresh air smelled heavenly after the smothering kitchen. The time for resting was over, though, and, as soon as John got back, they would see about the who and why of this mystery. He couldn't wait.

JWJWJW

**Well, that chapter turned out a LOT longer than I expected. At least that helps make up for the wait between chapters, right? I kind of like how it turned out, though. **** Thank you again for your support! You guys are all amazing!**

**As always, reviews/follows/favorites are greatly appreciated. **

**~JillianWatson1058**


	8. A Solution

A Solution

Sherlock met John just as he was walking back out of the cottage. The doctor glared at his friend. "I thought I told you to stay put!"

"Did you seriously expect me to do that?" The detective raised an eyebrow.

"No," his friend conceded. "You really should sit down, though. You look like you're about to fall over."

"I'm _fine_."

"Aren't you _always_?" John rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"We need to," the detective cleared his throat, "talk to Curtis Leo."

"Not right now, we don't."

Sherlock's brows furrowed. "Why not?"

"In case it slipped your brilliant mind, you haven't eaten a meal yet today, so-"

"Really, John, not _this_ again," he interjected, coughing several times. "I've eaten _everything_ you've asked me to thus far; surely I can manage to skip _one_ meal." Seeing that John wasn't about to give in, he tried a different tactic. "Don't you want to know who the murderer is? Although, I suppose, the question's all wrong, when you think about it…"

"What do you mean, the que- no. No, you're eating something."

"Don't you want to find out the solution, John?" He could tell his friend was wavering.

"Of course I- wait. Do you know who the killer is?"

"You're asking all the wrong questions, honestly."

"What does that even- no, no, you're not going to distract me. Do you know who the _killers_ are?"

"Still doesn't quite work, I'm afraid."

"Quite? Do you know who the killer-"

"Still no."

"Ok," John tried again. "_Do you_ or _do you not_ know who the murderer or murderers or non-murderers or possible murderer or murderers are, were, or _ever shall be_?"

He smirked. "Yes, I do know."

"Is he, she, they, or it likely to kill again?"

"No."

"Then we have time for breakfast."

"But…" there had to be _some _other excuse. Yes, that would work. "The kitchen's still filled with an unidentified poison."

"Then we'll eat in the sitting room." The doctor grabbed his protesting friend's arm and dragged him down the short hall, depositing him on one of the overstuffed armchairs.

Sherlock watched his friend duck into the kitchen. When he emerged from the smoky room moments later, coughing, he commented, "You don't sound too good, John. Are you coming down with something?"

"Oh, shut up!" He set some sandwich supplies on the coffee table. Looking at his friend, he realized, unsurprisingly, that the poison definitely hadn't helped the detective's health. The man was even paler than usual, and his cheeks were flushed. "Here," he tossed his friend the container of paracetamol, and the detective barely caught it. Definitely not feeling one hundred percent, then. They assembled their sandwiches, with Sherlock scarfing down his entire sandwich in the time it took John to make his.

While the detective waited for his friend to finish, he picked up his mobile phone.

"Who are you calling?" the doctor asked, chewing on a mouthful of meat and cheese.

"Mrs. Porter. Ah, hello!"

"_Hello? Is this the detective bloke?"_

"Yes, it is. I just had one question-"

"_Have you taken anything for your cough, young man? You sound a bit hoarse."_

"I'm _fine_, thank you. I was just wondering, do you have a time-bake oven at Tredannick Wartha?"

"_It just so happens that we do. Is it very important?"_

"Quite. Thank you, Mrs. Porter."

"_You're very welcome, dear."_

He hung up. "Are you almost finished?" Sherlock tapped his fingers on the chair's armrest.

"Patience is a virtue," John said, savoring his lunch.

"Can you at least eat _faster_? I swear, Mycroft could finish eating a _cake_ in the time it's taking you to eat that sandwich!"

"I don't doubt that," he commented, finishing the last bite.

"Good, you're done! Let's _go, _John!"

JWJWJW

"Yes?" Curtis Leo slowly opened the door to see the two men. "Are you alright, Mr. Holmes? You don't look too good."

"It's nothing," he waved it off, prompting an eye roll from John. "We're here about a poison, and it would be in your best interests to let us in."

At the look on Sherlock's face and John's crossed arms, he quickly glanced around. "Come in."

They entered a slightly cramped sitting room, the grey walls and grey chairs showing Leo's preference for function over fashion. The chairs were arranged in a half circle, two easy chairs on either side of a small sofa. As John sat down in one of the easy chairs, he saw the only picture in the room, a small photo in a plain wooden frame. It was of a grinning Leo, who had his arm around a beautiful woman, made even more beautiful by the smile gracing her features. She reminded John of Marty Tregennis, so he assumed she was the dead sister. The two looked so at ease, a striking contrast to the careworn man seating himself on the sofa. He looked as if he had aged a lifetime from the man in the photograph.

Sherlock seated himself on the other armchair and leaned back, fingertips together underneath his chin.

Leo's eyes shifted nervously back and forth between the two men. "What's all this about?"

"You know perfectly well what this is about," said Sherlock.

"I don't think I do."

"That's a poor attempt at a lie and you know it. We are here because of the death of Marty Tregennis."

"And what does that have to do with me?"

"Oh, _please_, there's enough stupidity in the world already without you acting dafter than you are! I'll spell it out for you. I know that you killed Marty Tregennis."

"Wait, what?" John looked up in confusion. "_He_ killed the Tregennises? But, he was in Africa when the first murder took place. And I thought he was in love with Brittany!"

Leo's face filled with rage. "I didn't kill Brittany! I would never to _anything_ to hurt her."

"But you don't deny killing Marty?" Sherlock pressed.

Leo put his head in his hands, the very picture of a beaten man. He sighed. "How did you find out?"

"Now, just a minute," John still looked perplexed. "If he didn't kill Brittany Tregennis, then who did?"

"Marty, obviously." The detective rolled his eyes.

"Oh, yes," muttered the doctor. "_Obviously_. Exactly _how_ is that obvious?"

"Marty," Sherlock explained, "was the only one who stood to benefit from his siblings' deaths and/or incapacitation. He also tried- unsuccessfully, I might add- to cover up the potato in the oven. Not only that, but he had opportunity."

"But, he had already left the house when the poison started burning, and the oven was off in the morning. How…?"

"A _time-bake oven_, John. Surely you remember me calling Mrs. Porter to ask about it? He set the timer to make the oven turn on and off, made sure to leave just before the poison started bake, and, when the victims were discovered the next morning, the oven had shut off by itself, and no one- well, almost no one- was the wiser. But you were the wiser, weren't you, Mr. Leo?"

The man just nodded mutely.

"You knew more than I did from the start, and, when the very man I was about to accuse of murder was found dead, it wasn't a very difficult leap to know who was behind Marty's death. You couldn't have (and wouldn't have, in any case) committed the first murder, but there was no question that you committed the second. You heard about your fiancé's murder when Rev. Roundhay called you, correct? He told you the whole situation, all the symptoms, and it sounded familiar. You knew exactly who had done it and how. Would you like to take it from here, or shall I continue?"

Sighing, Leo lifted his head from his hands. "You're completely right. As soon as Rev. Roundhay called me, I knew it was Marty.

"Since I was engaged to his sister, I had tried to get in his good books, or at least get him to be civil to me. I tried playing Euchre with them, which was how I found out about the rivalry. I know Marty probably claimed to you that things were all settled now, but that really couldn't be further from the truth. Even while just playing cards with them, I could feel the animosity just beneath the surface of their fake smiles. I never quite figured out what it was about, but I know I was something about the inheritance." He shook his head in disgust. "He killed them for _money,_" he spat.

After a short pause, he continued. "Anyway, in order to try and earn Marty's friendship, I decided to show him my greenhouse. He acted rather bored the whole time, until I showed him my more poisonous plants. Wanting to earn his trust, I answered all his questions, glad that he was interested- or so I thought- in my occupation.

"The dirty little weasel waited until I had left for Africa, and then he struck. I don't even know when he had time to steal the plant; I had my eye on him the whole time he was in my greenhouse."

A sudden thought struck John. "I think I can fill in _that_ detail. The first night we were here, I looked out the window and saw someone walking on the other side of the bay. It must have been Marty, walking back from breaking into your greenhouse."

"You're probably right," said Leo. "After the call, I rushed back to confirm my suspicions, and they were certainly confirmed."

"Why didn't you just tell the police that he killed them?" asked the doctor.

"Who would believe my story about a mysterious poison in the oven? Besides that, even if he was convicted, there isn't even a death penalty in Britain. He _killed Brittany._ I wanted justice for her death, and I decided to bring it about myself. I'm not proud of it; I'm really not. But, you can't even begin to imagine the horrid death Marty put her through." His eyes blazed.

"Strangely enough," John interjected, "I think we _can_, seeing as we almost went through the exact _same_ death she did."

Leo's head shot up. "What?"

"I found a remnant of the plant," Sherlock explained, "in the oven at Rev. Roundhay's house."

"And then he thought it would be a _brilliant_ idea to burn it in our kitchen to see if it was lethal."

"I told you, there was no other way!" the detective exclaimed, coughing.

"Then you know why he had to pay," the botanist continued, his face hardening again. "I drove to the Roundhay house in the middle of the night and-"

"Texted Marty," Sherlock cut in, "telling him to come down to the kitchen. You then proceeded to take his phone. Yes, we know that much. How did you get him to stay in the kitchen and not try to escape?"

"It was simple enough," the man said bitterly. "After I confronted him about what he did to Brittany, I took out my gun and said I'd shoot him if he moved from the kitchen chair. I put the plant in the oven, turned it on, and then waited outside the kitchen window. He didn't move from the chair." He shook his head. "I would've gone for the gun if I was him. Just the look on his _face_… But what's done is done." He straightened up. "Would you like to see the plant that's the culprit?"

Sherlock nodded. "We'd be delighted."

"Yeah," John agreed, "I'd like to find out exactly what Sherlock poisoned us with."

JWJWJW

Curtis Leo led the way down the rows of plants. Sunlight filtered in through the glass ceiling, and sprinklers were set up here and there, bathing the greenery in a gentle mist. "Here it is," he gestured to a large, leafy plant with hanging flowers. "Meet _Brugmansia Solanaceae_, or, as some people have nicknamed it, the Angel's Trumpet. All parts are poisonous, but especially the leaves and seeds. It can cause confusion, migraines, visual and auditory hallucinations, insanity at times, and even death."

"Not much of an angel, is it?" John commented. "With what that plant can do, they should've called it the Devil's…" thinking for a second, "foot… or something," he finished lamely.

"Yes, it's rather a pity that whoever named the plant didn't consult you first, isn't it?" Turning to Leo, Sherlock asked, "What were your plans?"

"I was going to go back to Africa. Now that Brittany's dead, there's nothing left for me here."

"Then go."

The botanist looked at him in shock. "I'm s-sorry, what?"

"You heard me. I said go. Pack your things. Don't come back."

The relief flooding through Curtis Leo was almost visible. He ran out of the greenhouse, shouting his thanks over his shoulder.

John just stared at his friend. "You just let a murderer go."

"It's not the first time."

"What do you-"

"You remember the taxi driver case, I'm sure."

The realization hit John like a brick. "Oh."

"I thought you might. Anyway, you really can't complain. I solved the case, after all. The first murderer's dead, the second will never kill again, and no one's keeping the police force from finding him- except the police force's own stupidity, of course. Above all, you get another exciting case to mess up in your blog."

"'Mess up?' I do not 'mess up' your cases!"

"What else do you call that horribly poetic prose?"

"Oh, so I make it 'horribly poetic' now, do I? I'm sure the great _Sherlock Holmes_ could do _so_ much better…"

They continued to bicker, walking slowly out of the now-abandoned greenhouse.

JWJWJW

**Did you guess who the murderer was? Although, I suppose that question's all wrong, when you think about it… ;)**

**We're not quite done with this story, though, which makes ME happy, at least. **** There will be an epilogue coming, don't worry! And, thanks to spring break, it should come very soon!**

**Thank you again for your support! As usual, reviews/follows/favorites are sincerely appreciated!**

**~JillianWatson1058**


	9. Home Again, Home Again

**Quick note: I'd like to dedicate this short (but fun) epilogue to my Holmes, to Jo-Anna :), and most of all, to Prothoe, who reviewed… every chapter. I cannot express how cool you are!**

Home Again, Home Again

"How do you spell 'Tredannick Wartha?' Do you think it has two n's?" John looked up from his laptop.

"How should I know?" Sherlock replied from the kitchen, holding up a pipette full of some chemical over the table. The doctor decided right away that he didn't want to know what it was. The two men were back in Baker Street, finally getting back to normal life after their escapade in Cornwall. Well, as normal as life ever got. "What _is_ this 'Tredannick Wartha,' anyway?" the detective asked.

"It's the name of the Tregennises' house, don't you remember?"

"Nope. Unnecessary information. Must've deleted it."

"You deleted their _house?_"

"No, just the name. Why does it have a name, anyway?"

"All the big houses over there have names. Our little cottage had one, too."

"It did?"

"Yes, the operative word here being _had_. I still can't believe you set it on _fire_, Sherlock!"

Sherlock slowly poured the liquid into a small bowl with some other chemical in it. "I was bored, the case was over, and I had to annoy Mycroft _somehow_. He'll probably just hire someone to rebuild it and then name it after himself, in any case. _I _still can't believe you tried to make me stay in bed for a week. I was _fine_."

"Oh, you can believe that I _tried_. You just can't believe that I _succeeded_," the doctor smiled smugly.

"Drugging my coffee was cheating!"

"Oh, because you've _never _done that to _me_ before…"

"That was _once!_ And it was for a case!" The mixture in the bowl started to turn a deep green. "And I didn't _actually_ drug you, after all."

"But you meant to."

"I… might've…"

"So drugging your coffee was _completely_ fair game!" The doctor returned to his typing. "Besides, it was worth it. You're back to full health, and I'm letting you solve cases again." After writing in silence for several minutes, John again broke the silence. "What should I change Curtis Leo's name to?"

"Why does it need to change at all?" Sherlock added another chemical to the mixture.

"Mycroft's been bugging me about changing people's names on the blog so I don't give away too much 'sensitive information.'"

"And you want to stay in my brother's good books since he got you the time-bake stove."

"No, I frankly do not _care_ about Mycroft's good books, even though he could wipe my blog off the face of the earth."

"I notice that you didn't say he could wipe _you_ off the face of the earth, only your blog."

"Yeah, I could give him a run for his money," he smiled at the thought. "Unlike me, however, my blog is unarmed."

"Whatever happened to, 'The pen is mightier than the sword?'"

"It turned into, 'The sword is weaker than the handgun.' Anyway, I obey Mycroft because I happen to respect my authorities."

"Mycroft isn't your authority!"

"Mycroft is the whole of _Great Britain's_ authority! And since I _am_ obeying his authority, what should I call Curtis Leo?"

Sherlock stirred the green mixture thoughtfully. It started to bubble. "Leon Sterndale."

"Why?"

"Just popped into my head." A mist started to rise up from the bowl. The detective took out a match. "You said you wanted a name, not an explanation." He lit it. _WHOOF!_

John turned around to see Sherlock backing out of a kitchen that was quickly filling with smoke. "What did you just _do?_"

"All part of the plan!" The detective looked over his friend's shoulder. "What are you- _Devil in Disguise?_ What kind of rubbish title is that?"

"It's not rubbish! It fits perfectly!"

"Oh, please explain _this_ one. I wait with baited breath…"

"Well, the poison's effects were a bit devilish, and the poison was called Angel's Trumpet, but it was really the opposite of angelic, so it was more of a… devil… in disguise. And you can just wipe that look off your face! What would _you_ have called it?"

"The Cornwall Insanity Case."

"Oh, that'll just spark _everyone's _interest. I can see why your blog's so popular…"

"_My _title is accurate and straight to the point."

"It's also boring, in case you hadn't noticed."

"At least it doesn't give the impression of some demon running around wearing sunglasses and a fake mustache."

"It's _my_ blog, Sherlock. I can title things how I want."

"Yes, I suppose you have your right to inaccuracy."

"Oh, just shut up, won't you?" John grabbed the Union Jack pillow and chucked it at his friend, who caught it easily.

"Resorting to force rather than logic, then?"

"Shouldn't you be cleaning up the mess you made in the kitchen? Whatever you did, it's still smoking."

"It'll dissipate in its own time."

"And when, exactly, is 'its own time?'"

From somewhere within the smoky kitchen, a mobile phone started ringing. "It must be Lestrade!" Sherlock rushed into the gray cloud and emerged with his phone at his ear. "Yes? _Really?_ We'll be right there." Chuckling, he hung up and ran for his coat.

"Is there a case, then?"

"Oh, yes!" Putting his scarf on, he headed for the door. "A giant rat, John!"

Standing up, John looked at his friend in bewilderment. "A _what?_"

By this time, Sherlock was already down the stairs. "A giant _rat!_"

JWJWJW

**Some fun notes: The cottage in Cornwall actually exists, and is actually named after Sherlock. It also has a smaller cottage right next to it named after Mycroft. :) Imagine that! **

**And yes, while time-bake ovens do exist, I realize that time-bake stoves do not, but, you know, Mycroft can do anything, right?**

**Thank you SO MUCH for your support. I'm afraid this is the end of the story. I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did. :) Did you have a favorite chapter? Favorite line? Comments? Questions? Feel free to leave a review! Favorites are also greatly appreciated!**

**Until next time!**

**~JillianWatson1058**


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